


the sound of reverie

by ambpersand



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, F/M, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27956876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambpersand/pseuds/ambpersand
Summary: Thousands of miles from home, somehow Lydia Martin ends up in the back of the same Uber as her high school crush.
Relationships: Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 16
Kudos: 84





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grace_d](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_d/gifts), [pastaslut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastaslut/gifts).



> For Caitlin and Grace.

She is going to kill the research department assistant. Truly. 

An  _ Uberpool?  _ Lydia Martin doesn’t take  _ Uberpools.  _ She takes private hired cars, or chooses the lux options, and that isn’t a secret. Even if the other students in her Ph.D. program scrape by on ramen noodles and cheap rent-a-bikes to get around the city, she doesn’t. She has  _ standards.  _

Which means this is either a cruel prank or Lydia did something to get on Alice’s bad side when she asked her to arrange for a car to get her to her workshop across town, but either way…  _ This is not going to end well for Alice _ . 

“You gettin’ in or what?” the driver’s passenger window is still rolled down, and he’s giving her an expectant look while she stands on the sidewalk fuming. A quick glance at her watch confirms what she already knows--she doesn’t have time to call her own car. She’s got 18 minutes to get to the conference center, get checked in, and find her way to the room where they’re holding the microbiology research workshops. She can’t afford to miss it, either. Not when this is the last thing she needs to wrap up this stage of her thesis project and move on to outlining her research findings. 

“Fine,” she snaps, moving to the back door. The driver has a messenger bag draped over the passenger seat, leaving her to scoot in next to the stranger sitting in the back of the SUV. She only caught a glimpse of thick brown hair through the window, but she doesn’t say anything to him as she slams the door and pulls her seatbelt on. 

The car is quiet as the driver pulls back out into traffic, until the slight hum of muffled music makes her way to her ears. Assuming it’s the radio, she glances at the dashboard, surprised to see that the screen is dark.  _ Which means… There it is.  _ To her left, her rideshare partner is looking out the window, a pair of white earbuds peeking out from his ears. His long fingers are tapping a rapid beat on his thigh, which is jumping time with the muted tempo. He’s either too distracted to notice how loud his music is, or he doesn’t care, but she takes advantage, letting her eyes sweep over him out of genuine curiosity. 

With a lean build and pale complexion, he’s unassuming. But it’s the small details that catch her attention, like the way his shoulders fill out the dark blue jacket he’s wearing, or the smattering of freckles and moles that peek out over the collar of his shirt and dot his neck. A strange feeling grows in her chest, and she thinks, maybe, if he turns toward her there might be more on his face. 

As if sensing her attention, he almost does. He glances down, giving her a slight view of his profile while he taps across the screen on his phone. The rhythmic drumming of his other hand doesn’t stop despite the change in his concentration, but she doesn’t care about that anymore.

Not when she sees a glimpse of a face she thought she’d never see again. 

_ Stiles.  _ His name floats through her mind, settling deep into her chest until it feels like she has to take a deep lungful of air just to breathe again. 

He’s not the same Stiles Stilinski as the one in her memories from years ago, when she stopped going home for the holidays. Back then he was still lanky and awkward, a teenager still growing into his adult body. As her eyes roam over the dark slashes of his eyebrows and the upturned cupids bow on his lips, she counts back.

It’s been four years since she last saw him. Four years since that New Years eve party with Scott and Allison and the rest of their friends, when she pulled him into a dark room at midnight, kissed him, then left knowing that she would never return. For a while, that feeling of that kiss replayed in her mind on those nights when she couldn’t fall asleep. The feeling of surprise when she crashed her lips on hers, followed closely by the tight latch of his hands on her waist when he realized who she was and what was happening. The breathless way he kissed her like he was gasping for air, but didn’t want to come up from underwater. 

It was no secret that Stiles had had a crush on her for the entirety of their high school days. It was embarrassing in the beginning, back when she thought she was too good for Scott and his little gang of misfit toys. But then she got to know them,  _ really  _ know them, and for the first time, someone saw her as more than the stuck up, pretty popular girl known as Lydia Martin. Stiles was the first one to see past her defenses, and the prickly feeling she used to get around him morphed quickly into flattery. Security. Warmth. Something that felt a lot like home. 

Over time, something sparked in her heart, but she never acted on it. Not when she knew that she was destined for better things outside of Beacon Hills, where she knew she would be leaving him behind. It was better to be pragmatic than romantic, and Lydia wasn’t about to waste her time or anyone else’s on a high school romance stretched across thousands of miles. 

So she left. And then her parents got divorced during her second year of undergrad, and when her mom moved permanently to their beachside vacation home there was no reason to go back to Beacon Hills anymore. It wasn’t home for her, despite who she might have she left there, and she convinced herself that a feeling couldn’t be home. 

His name is stuck in her throat, as thin as a whisper, and he still doesn’t realize she’s staring at him. Thousands of miles from home in the back of an Uberpool ordered by  _ mistake _ , she’s just inches away. She licks her lips, momentarily forgetting about the lipstick she’d just applied before leaving her office, and reaches toward him. Stopping just inches away, she stares at her hand. 

Her fingernail polish is chipped. The edges of red have just started to lift, and she instinctively curls her fingers back into a fist.  _ He can’t see me like this,  _ the thought flits through her head so quickly that it takes a second for the guilt to catch up, followed closely by anger. At herself. 

_ Why not?  _ She questions. It’s something that the old,  _ old _ Lydia would have thought. Stiles never cared about her hair, or her makeup, or the state of fingernail polish. If anything, he reveled in those moments when he saw her without her armor. Just like most everything about him, she remembers them clearly. The way his eyes would catch on her bare face, lingering around her eyes, her lips, her nose, down her neck. He wasn’t ever discreet at how much he looked at her, and even though she’d never admit to anyone, sometimes she spent hours on intricate hairstyles just because she knew he’d track his eyes over every single strand. 

Pulling her hand back into her own lap is finally what catches his attention. It starts slow, more polite than surprised, his light brown eyes darting over to her figure. The selfish, dark part of her wants to hide. To turn her face away and pretend that she’s not sitting next to the one person she came close to loving so long ago. To exist in the same Boston that existed just an hour ago, when she hadn’t thought of Stiles in months. 

One glance turns to two, but she can’t bring herself to look away. Not when his eyes finally land on her face, tracking over the features in that same, familiar way. It feels like a caress, and she holds still while he has the same realization she just went through. His face morphs into several expressions, sliding between confusion to apprehension and finally settling on surprise, and her lips curl up into a hesitant smile. 

“Hi,” she’s not sure he can even hear her over the muffled music that’s still leaking from his earpods, but his mouth opens, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the perfect lips from her memory. Nothing comes out. 

Maybe if it were anyone else, they would be harder to recognize. It might take a few tries, really searching through the depths of memories to place their younger face to the new, older one in front of them. But not with Stiles, and Lydia’s suddenly struck by the thought that it could be ten, fifteen, twenty years and they would still instinctively know. 

It’s just who they are. 

If anything, the years apart have only served to make him even more attractive than he already was. What was boyish before is now more settled, refined, and she can’t help but want to reach out to touch him to see if he’s just as solid as he looks… Or to see if he’ll dissipate completely, like a figment of her imagination. To test the theory that this is all just a cruel dream that she’s about to wake up from. 

“Lydia,” her name is a smile on his lips, stretching across his face and lighting all the way through to his eyes. 

The sound of his voice, so achingly familiar, sends stark relief rushing through her veins.  _ He is real.  _

“Stiles.”

The name forms on a smile of her own, and he pulls the white cord from his ears, moving slowly like maybe he doesn’t want to spook her. 

“Lydia,” he repeats, seemingly unable to come up with a coherent sentence, and she struggles not to flip her hair over her shoulder or straighten the cardigan she’s wearing over the floral dress she chose for work today. 

“Going for a solid three?” her teasing tone makes him laugh, and he finally breaks eye contact, glancing down at his hand which has gone still against his thigh. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Do you mean in Boston, or in the back of this dirty Uber?” the latter makes the driver huff, but she pays him no mind. 

“Both,” Stiles agrees quickly, shoving his phone into his pocket and turning his body in the seat toward her. 

It’s been so long that she had almost forgotten the way that he pays attention to her with every ounce of energy in him. He has the amazing ability to tune into whoever he’s speaking to, giving them all of the attention he’s capable of, which some days is more fleeting than others. 

“Uh,” she laughs to settle the flare of nerves in her stomach, then looks ahead to see the driver just a few streets ahead from her stop. They’re running out of time. “First, I live here. Second, my assistant ordered the wrong ride.” 

“Then I guess it’s my lucky day,” the shock seems to have worn off, but he’s still grinning. “Out of all the gin--” 

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” she cuts him off, but can’t deny the laugh that surfaces through her chest. 

“Or what?” his eyes are sparkling with the same mischief she remembers from high school, and the fluttering in her stomach swirls into something more heady, more heavy. 

She feels the driver starting to slow down outside the conference center, his neck craning around to find a spot to park near the curb, and knows she’s running out of time. 

“Or I won’t give you my number so we can grab lunch.” 

The offer has barely left her lips when he snaps his jaw closed, rolling his lips between his teeth before mimicking a zipper. Even four years later, he’s still got enough boyish charm that it makes her want to roll her eyes. 

“This is my stop,” she glances past him, seeing the warped reflection of the cars and traffic in the tall glass windows, and reaches for her seat belt. 

“Wait--” he startles, his leg kicking out and accidentally knocking over the laptop bag by his feet. It’s sudden enough that she jumps back, her lips parting on a slight gasp, but his chagrin is enough to make up for the sudden dose of adrenaline in her system. “Already?”

She ignores his pleading tone, trying instead to focus on digging through her purse to find the small notebook and pen she keeps on hand, rather than remembering the last time she heard him beg her to stay. 

“Here’s my number,” scribbling it down in neat, efficient handwriting, she tears off the page and tucks it between his fingers. “I’m going to be at this workshop all day, but call me later and we can catch up?” 

There are few people that she would make the offer to, and even fewer people who she would be willing to answer the phone on the off chance that they did call. But Stiles simply nods, his eyes locked on the scrap of paper, and gives her a guarded look as she climbs from the back seat. Before she can slam the door closed, however, he calls out her name again. 

“Hey Lydia?” 

“Hmm?” 8 minutes and counting to get where she needs to be, as much as part of her wants to stay in the back seat of a dirty SUV with her high school friend. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it, seeming to change his mind about what he wants to say. “It was a really nice surprise to see you.”

She was expecting a sarcastic comment, or maybe a dorky joke, but not something so endearingly tender. It takes her by surprise, and she has to look away to school her features.

“You too, Stiles.” 


	2. two

Lydia made it a point to always be early, no matter what. It just made sense, which is why there was a certain kind of irony in running into Stiles Stilinski on the one day that she hadn’t been able to keep to her usual schedule. Everything had come up against her that morning--her morning coffee order had been wrong, the lanyard she kept on her purse to hold her badge had come loose and dropped her work ID somewhere on the Boston sidewalks, and then Alice had forgotten to call a car the  _ right  _ way, which all culminated to the most perfect coincidence of her short life. 

She spends all afternoon mulling over the difference between coincidences and synchronicity. Lydia doesn’t believe in fate, but she knows if Stiles were to find out all the things that led to her ending up in the back of the Uber with him? It would all be over. He would smile in that way of his, one side of his lips tipping up to the side in a crooked grin, fingers tapping excitedly against whatever surface was closest to his hands. He’d shift in his seat, sitting closer to her, leaning in while his eyes sparkled with all the possibilities that could explain why it was meant to happen.

Which is one of the reasons why she makes sure to be at least fifteen minutes early for dinner with Stiles. Not just because she doesn’t trust the universe to not continue it’s campaign to make her late, but for one very important reason. 

To see him first. Like a scientific experiment, she has to see exactly how much has changed with Stiles Stilinski during their time apart. Will he still have the same hurried gait? Will he walk with his shoulders back, head held high now that he’s grown into a man? And, more than anything, she needs to know if his face will still light up when he sees her the way it used to. 

The text message had appeared on her phone before she even made it to the entrance of the conference center that morning, and well before she saw the Uber pull away through the murky reflection of the glass doors. 

_ I’ve got a meeting over lunch, but can I take you to dinner?  _

Dinner felt more like a date than her offer, but she couldn’t stop staring at his words on her phone screen. For over an hour she felt her phone sit heavy in the pocket of her skirt, until a second, more hesitant message came through.

_ I still can’t believe it was you.  _

Neither could she, and that’s what finally pushes her forward, her shaking fingers tapping out a response before she can second-guess herself. 

_ How does 7 sound? There’s a great place downtown I’ve been meaning to try. We can go dutch.  _

Maybe it’s pride, but something deep inside her stomach tacks on the last thing to the text. She can’t let him take her to dinner after years of no contact, let alone assume that he would even  _ want _ to buy her dinner. Besides, since she was the one who asked, it wouldn’t be fair. 

The workshop ticks by with a painful slowness, and every time she glances at the clock, minutes have passed instead of hours. Until, finally, she’s right where she wants to be. Sitting in the booth at the restaurant they agreed at, fifteen minutes early. 

She’s already got most of the menu memorized by the time his dark hair appears across the room, waiting by the hostess stand while he looks for her in the crowd. Counting down, she waits. 

_ One, two, three, four…  _ Five. 

Five seconds in, and it happens. His steps pause, feet momentarily stumbling, but he recovers with an embarrassed smile. One arm comes up, bracketing the back of his head, and his hand sweeps across his jaw to cover the blush spreading across his cheeks. His eyes, the ones she was watching for, are alight with surprise and excitement, and in that moment he looks like he could be sixteen again. 

Her heart beats a rapid pace, thundering in her ears as he approaches, and she covers it with an amused smile of her own. A little more reserved and practiced, maybe, but enough to let him know she caught what just happened. It’s enough to convey the strange sense of giddiness that confirmed her hypothesis, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“You came,” his greeting is a little breathless as he sits down. His limbs are more graceful now that he’s not surprised, moving with a steady kind of fluidity that catches her eyes. 

“Of course I did,” Lydia laughs, tilting her head. “Did you think I would stand you up?” 

With a slight laugh, he picks up one of the menus, then immediately puts it back down. “No. Well, maybe. Scott didn’t believe me when I told him I ran into you.”

“You told Scott?” 

_ Why am I even surprised?  _ It had barely been nine hours. 

“Of course I told Scott,” he pulls a face, acting affronted, even though his eyes are still crinkled at the edges. “What else would we talk about during our hourly check-ins?” 

“Still co-dependent, I see,” she teases, folding her fingers together on the table in front of her. It keeps her from picking at the nail polish she made time to fix before heading to the restaurant, but she doesn’t have much confidence it will last the night. 

“Someone has to take care of him,” he lowers his voice until it reaches something between sarcasm and exasperation, and she knows, even after all this time--Stiles is so completely full of it. 

“Mmhmm, sure,” she winks, playing along when the server comes by to take their order. 

“Uh, I’ll have whatever she’s having,” Stiles barely casts a glance at the menu, quickly shoving it toward the edge of the table to get it out of his way. Surprised, she rattles off an order of a few of the things she took note of before he arrived. Once the waitress is gone, she turns her gaze back to his. 

She doesn’t have to speak the words out loud, because he already knows what she’s about to say and gives her an easy shrug. 

“I trust you.”

Whether it’s the movement of his shoulders bunching up or his words, she has to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat to appear normal. Natural. Like his sudden appearance in her life isn’t completely spinning her around until she no longer knows which way is up. Before Stiles, she had a routine. A steady, predictable schedule to fill her days, and now? Now she has the feeling that she won’t be able to think straight for weeks. Maybe even months. 

“So what are you doing in Boston?” 

In order to get through the microbiology workshop this afternoon without screaming, she made a mental list of all the questions she wanted to ask Stiles, and this was at the top. He already got her answer, and now she wants his. 

“Besides wondering how I got lucky enough to find you again?” he grins easily, and she has to look away. This isn’t flirting--it can’t be. He’s probably long since moved on, and it’s just his natural charm, the same way he’s always been. “For work, technically. I got called in to consult on a special case with the BPD.” 

The words swirl around in her mind, sinking like a lead weight, but one sticks out.  _ Consultant.  _ Consultant means temporary. 

“So you didn’t get a badge after all,” she says instead. As a forensics major, he’d always talked about following in his father’s footsteps and joining the police force.  _ Maybe I missed more than I thought,  _ she thinks. 

“I thought about it, but I’m just not ready to be tied down to one place just yet.” 

Schooling her features, she nods. She knows that feeling well. Even though Beacon Hills hasn’t been home for a long time, Boston doesn’t quite feel right either, and her internet search history confirms it. Some nights she stays up, looking at job postings and apartment listings in far away cities, just to see if she can finally find what feels like home. 

“So when do you go home?” she asks, holding her breath when he glances down at the table, moving his hands beneath the gleaming wood surface. His whole body sways, his lean torso shifting uncomfortably underneath her gaze. 

“I’ve actually got to head back on Monday. My dad’s having surgery.” 

_ Of course.  _ It’s one thing for serendipity to bring them together in a city so far from where they grew up, but it would be so much more if they actually had  _ time.  _

“Is he okay?” she covers her disappointment with honest concern. 

He shrugs again, but it’s strained. “Old bullet wounds. You know how it goes when you’re the sheriff.”

She hums in agreement, not sure what to say next. The gravity of losing Stiles so quickly after finding him makes her stomach feel like it’s filled with cement, and she’s suddenly got no appetite left for the food she just ordered.

“I hope it goes well,” it’s the polite thing to follow up with, but the words feel hollow in her mouth. It helps to disguise her own sadness, though, and he takes it as well as she expects.

Sensing her change in demeanor, he stills. “Hey,” he reaches a wide palm out toward her, his long fingers closing over her hands, and smiles. “I’m sure I’ll be a wreck, but I now that I have your number, just get ready for a thousand text messages about the crappy hospital vending machines.” 

“Oh, good,” she forces a laugh, half amused by the idea of him sampling sixteen different candy bars just to pass the time before they’re interrupted by the waitress. 

“Here you go,” she sets down their drinks and the appetizer Lydia ordered, but she waits until Stiles speaks again to decide her next move. His hand feels heavy and warm on top of her own, and she’s half torn between wanting to turn her palms upright to tangle their fingers together, or to pull away completely and shield herself so she doesn’t have to remember what he feels like. 

His touches used to make her feel wanted. Desired. They were steady and confident, even when he wasn’t. They anchored her, no matter what they were doing or where they were going. Guiding her through a crowd, pulling her along to see something he was excited about, glancing across her skin as he shifted through the cramped kitchen at Scott’s house. 

But that was then, and this is now, and he’s not hers anymore. He could have someone back at home, couldn’t he? He could have someone prettier than her, but not smarter, who didn’t run thousands of miles away instead of giving him a chance. 

“So what are you up to these days?” 

Finally, he pulls away. It’s slow and measured, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart down to where they’re connected. Even though it was only for a moment, the loss is enough to feel like a physical weight being lifted. Like having a blanket ripped off of you on a sleepy Sunday morning, leaving behind that cold sort of weightlessness that snaps you back into reality. 

“I’m working through a PhD program, actually,” she tells him, grabbing her silverware as he begins to plate some of the bread from the basket between them. 

Pausing his movements, he flashes her a surprised look. “You’re already getting your PhD? Lydia, we’re only  _ twenty-four. _ ” 

Like always, his surprise isn’t judgemental. She can hear it in his tone… It’s proud. 

Fighting the blush from spreading up to her ears, she nods. This shouldn’t be something she’s bashful about. She’s told a thousand people about her progress in school, and her desire to be running her own research lab by the time she’s 30 has been common knowledge since she enrolled in her undergraduate biology program. But something in the way Stiles is looking at her makes her stomach flip, and deep down inside she knows his reactions mean more than anyone else’s. 

Shrugging, she picks up the butter knife and dips it into the dish between them. “It was easy. I managed to finish my undergrad in three years, then went right into a one year master's program. I already knew which schools I wanted to go to, so it was just a matter of making sure I had my applications in on time.” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Stiles nods with faux seriousness. “That’s all it takes. Easy as pie.”

Lydia can’t fight the smile that tugs at the edges of her mouth. “Okay, fine. Maybe it’s not for everyone.”

“But you’re not everyone,” he winks, biting into his bread. It puffs his cheeks out a little, and she knows that the adorable image of him at ease in front of her will be seared into her mind alongside his surprised excitement at seeing her in the Uber this morning. It definitely has nothing to do with his words, or the way that the butterflies in her stomach immediately go shooting up into her throat. 

As soon as he’s finished chewing, he continues. “Well, while you’re out becoming the smartest person in the world, I will have you know that I finally managed to get my Jeep to stop making that awful noise when you shift it into third gear.” 

“That piece of junk is  _ still  _ running?” she laughs, not bothering to hide her shock. It’s practically as old as they are, and the last time she saw it, the thing was held together with duct tape and Stiles’ sheer force of will. 

“Hey now,” swatting at her hand, he shakes his head. “Don’t speak ill of my baby. She’s all I’ve got.”

“Don’t let Scott hear you say that.” 

Her joke earns an amused snort. “He already knows where my priorities are.” 

“What’s he been up to?” as much as she hates to take up some of their precious time to talk about something that isn’t Stiles or what he’s been doing within her absence, there’s enough guilt surfacing inside her chest that she needs to know. Stiles wasn’t the only one she left behind when she stopped flying back to Beacon Hills. 

“He finished vet school a little while ago, and he’s about to take over the clinic for Deaton now that he’s ready to retire,” he fills in the gaps. “He’s still too nice, and he never quite grew into that crooked jaw either.” 

Smiling, she settles in. Over the next hour and a half he fills her in on everything their friends have been doing, everything that they’ve accomplished and the people they’ve become without her around. It fills her with a strange, aching sense of nostalgia, and not for the first time, she wishes she could go back in time and do it over again. 

“Hey, do you remember that time that Issac--” he starts after they’ve both paid for the dinner, holding a hand out to her to help her from the booth.

“Ordered that cheap body paint for Halloween and ended up with hives on his face for a week?” she fills in the gap with a laugh, trying not to focus on the way her palm slips between his so easily. If she were weaker, she might hang on after she stands and adjusts her coat, but she doesn’t. She drops it instead, shoving her fists into her pockets to keep them warm, but it’s no consolation. 

“Guess what he did last year,” he raises his eyebrows, turning around to walk backwards once they’re out on the sidewalk. It only takes a few seconds for him to stumble over a crack, and the danger of it makes her shoot her hands out to catch him. Giving in, he settles back in beside her instead, his arm brushing the side of her shoulder with every step. 

“He  _ didn’t _ ,” Lydia laughs again, for what feels like the thousandth time that night, and rolls her eyes. 

“They really miss you, you know,” he says after a beat of silence, leaning into her slightly. His voice has gone down an octave, serious and rough, and she feels it in the hollow of her chest. “We all do.” 

After a shuddering breath, she pushes her shoulder against his, then removes her arm from her pocket just long enough to wrap it around his arm. Her hand comes to rest on his wrist, her shorter fingers laying on the soft skin just below his palm, and she can feel the steady thump of his pulse in time with her own. They’re not quite holding hands, but it’s close enough. “I know. I miss you guys too.” 

“Can I ask you one last question?” slowing down, he pulls her into a spot just off the sidewalk, near where a few cars are parked. 

_ This must be it then. It’s his turn to go.  _

Nodding, she holds her breath in her lungs so long they begin to burn. It takes him a few seconds, but before he speaks, he moves. His arm slides out from beneath hers, capturing her hands in his before they slide up to her shoulders. Holding her in place. Keeping her steady. 

“Why did you leave?”

The words float between them, so heavy and strained, that she feels like if she exhales too fast, everything between them might shatter completely. The weight of his unspoken meaning is obvious, making it that much harder for her to answer. 

_ Why did you leave me? Why did you stop answering my messages, and never look back?  _ For a moment, she considers telling him the truth, but she can’t. The truth is too hard, and too raw, and too complicated for who they are now. Because the truth is that she was waiting for him to tell her that he loved her, to say the words out loud and give her a reason to stay, but he never did. So she kissed him goodbye and set him free. 

“I thought--” she starts, but the words get caught in her throat so she tries again. “I thought I was making the right choice. For everyone.” 

“Lydia,” he says her name on a sigh, his dark eyelashes fluttering closed as his shoulders deflate. “You might be the smartest person I know, but did you ever stop and think that maybe you don’t know everything?” 

Before she can work through his question, his lips are on hers. They’re soft and warm and the sensation makes her feel instantly weightless, and if it weren’t for his hands keeping her anchored down, she feels like she really might float away. 

It’s a chaste kiss, innocent and wanting, and he pulls back before she can stop herself from following. 

“Are you Stiles?” a driver in a nearby car calls from an open window. “I’m your Uber.” 

“Yeah, just a second,” he calls back over his shoulder, then looks back down at her with a soft, tender gaze. Slowly, he reaches up and outlines her lower lip with his thumb, the feeling so faint that she can barely believe he’s touching her. 

“I’ve got to go, but don’t be a stranger, okay?” 

He’s already a few steps away by the time she can find the strength to nod. 

“Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come visit me on tumblr @ambpersand


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to anyone who took a chance on this story, and to whoever made it this far despite it being my first ever Stydia fic. 
> 
> And a massive shoutout to Caitlin, who introduced me to TW and paved the way for this beautiful obsession. This is truly for you.

True to his word, Stiles doesn’t let Lydia sink back into her old habits. He gives her two days to settle back into her routine, pretending life is going back to normal in his absence, before he reaches out. It’s simple, and easy, and so perfectly Stiles that she can’t help but spend the morning smiling even though she can’t come up with a witty response. 

It’s just a photo, and it shouldn’t send her stomach tumbling full of swirly, floating butterflies, but it does. Somehow, just a picture of his knees, pressed up against the cheap, cramped airline seats is what she needs. 

_ Stiles:  
_ _ Remind me to stop buying the budget tickets.  _

Part of her wants to tease him about being cheap, or make a quip about how she would pay extra for first class just for the champagne alone. But it feels too close to opening the door that she wants to remain firmly closed… Because talking about traveling makes her want to know when, or if, she might get to see him again. 

He sends her another photo when he lands, this time of his Jeep alongside a baby emoji, which makes her roll her eyes to herself. The lab is quiet for a Monday afternoon and she’s got a tray full of cultures waiting to produce, so she settles in and pulls out her phone to respond. 

_ Lydia:  
_ _ But did you make it with both legs intact? _

His reply is instant. 

_ Stiles:  
_ _ Barely. Lost circulation to my feet about twenty minutes in. Thought they might need cut off, but Scott told me I was being a baby.  _

Laughing, she agrees. 

_ Lydia:  
_ _ You probably were.  _

It goes on for hours as Stiles makes his way to the hospital to wait out his dad’s surgery, then once he gets back to his apartment for the night. He falls asleep mid-text, but as soon as the sun rises, they’re back to it. It’s more than they’ve talked since they were teenagers, and her days begin to pass by in a blur, broken up only by the text message notifications on her phone. They talk about everything and nothing, filling the empty gaps of time where they thought their friendship was lost forever. 

He sends her pictures of his day, of all the places he goes and the mundane things he’s got going on. Waiting in line for lunch, grabbing takeout with Scott, a quick snapshot of his dad half asleep on the couch with bright white bandages padding his shoulder. She does the same in return, asking him for his input on her nail color when she settles into paint them at night even though she already knows which shade of blue he’ll choose. She shows him some of her lab work, and the stacks of paperwork written with her neat, steady script. 

At night, they queue up the same shows to watch while they finish their work for the day--his seems to always be the case reports he puts off, and hers is the article research for her thesis, but it feels different to be doing it together while still so far apart. 

_ What if we didn’t have to be?  _

The thought becomes more prominent with each passing day, and she almost considers asking him… Until he sends another photo, his feet kicked up on an empty seat in an airport terminal. 

_ Stiles:  
_ _ Back to the grind.  _

Her stomach sinks when she realizes he must be going on another case, somewhere else where he might run into someone better than her. She doesn’t have the heart to ask where he’s headed next, so she does what she does best, and pretends everything is fine. 

_ Lydia:  
_ _ So soon?  _

He hadn’t even been back home a week. 

_ Stiles:  
_ _ Crime waits for no man, even the sheriff.  _

Her next question is at the tips of her fingers, but like always, she hesitates. She evaluates, measures, and gauges the potential outcomes. Does she really want to know? Will knowing make her life better? Easier? More positive in any way? 

The scariest part is that she  _ knows _ that the answer is no, but she pushes forward anyway, succumbing to the curiosity that claws behind her lips. 

_ Lydia:  
_ _ How long do you usually spend in each place?  _

He hasn’t talked about the specifics of his work much, other than the fact that he started consulting almost immediately after college. He’s built up an impressive history of successful case closings, finding the threads of commonalities behind different crimes before anyone else can see the patterns, and she’s so proud of him that she doesn’t know how to even begin to tell him. 

_ Stiles:  
_ _ It depends on the case. Sometimes it’s just a few days, or it can be a few weeks. This one looks like it could be close to six weeks before I’m home again.  _

Six weeks. The fantasy stretches out in front of Lydia like a road paved in gold, imagining what it would have been like to spend an entire month with Stiles instead of a single evening at dinner.  _ How long was he in Boston before I found him? Days? Weeks?  _ For all the luck she had running into him, that was all she got. Just one night… Nothing more, nothing less. Tapping out another message, she tries to pretend that there’s not a hole growing in her chest, gaping with the loss of what never was. Like an old scar ripped open. 

_ Lydia:  
_ _ Do you like traveling that much? _

It takes a few minutes for his response to come through, the little bubble on the screen popping up and then disappearing before he finds the right words. 

_ Stiles:  
_ _ Sometimes. It can be nice to see the world outside Beacon Hills.  _

There’s a weight to his words, an unspoken emphasis on  _ sometimes,  _ and she feels the sudden desire to try and turn things back to the positive and get far away from the strange, solemn place where they’re apart. 

_ Lydia:  
_ _ Give me your top three favorite places you’ve been.  _

This time, it takes him even longer to respond. A few hours go by, and it’s enough that she realizes he must have landed in whatever new city he’s about to live in for the next several weeks, but the words that finally show up on her screen fill her with so much delight she has to bury her face in her hands. 

_Stiles:  
1\. Boston  
2\. Boston_  
_3\. Boston_

Their easy rhythm continues until the days turn into a week, and then another, even though Lydia can’t bring herself to ask him the harder questions that linger in the back of her mind.  _ Where are you now? Will you ever come back? Did you kiss me and leave so I’d know how it feels?  _ He sends her pictures of himself in the morning, bleary eyed and scruffy, while he waits for his cheap hotel coffee maker to brew. She sends him carefully poised selfies in the bathroom mirror at work, and he always sends a different colored heart emoji in response. Some days it feels like enough, and some days it feels like she might suffocate from the absence of him. 

It was never this hard for her before. Not when she was able to remove any trace of Stiles Stilinski and Beacon Hills from her life and pretend that part of her never existed in the first place. Back when she was able to escape to a new city far away from home and never look back. But this time, he’s not letting her, and it gets harder to  _ want _ to pull away the longer it goes. 

It isn’t until one night after her classmates all venture out for drinks to celebrate a successful research publication that she finally breaks. Tucked safely in the back of a cab, her fingers drift over the screen of her phone, tracing the outline of his face in his most recent selfie from that morning. His jaw is half-hidden by the overstuffed hotel pillow, but his smile is sleepy and genuine. 

_ Good morning.  _

Her hand feels heavy when she raises the phone to her ear, the trill on the line like a foghorn in a quiet night. It drowns out the thundering of her anxious heart, but she’s had just enough to drink that she feels loose and warm and  _ wanting _ . 

“If this is a pocket dial, I’m going to be so mad at you for getting my hopes up.” 

He bypasses a normal greeting completely, and her lips stretch out into a slow smile in the dark of the backseat. 

“Is that so?” her words are just the slightest bit slurred, her tongue heavy against the syllables. She’s not drunk, but the excitement thrumming through her veins drowns out any care she might have about him knowing. 

“Nah, I could never be mad at you,” he laughs slightly, and she shakes her head even though she knows he can’t see her. 

“Not even when I leave?” 

It’s probably the wrong move to plunge their conversation into such serious territory so soon, especially considering this is their first phone call in years. But something tells her that she  _ has  _ to say it, she  _ has _ to acknowledge what she did, because she’s not sure she can keep going without knowing that he forgives her for the mistake she made. 

“Lyds,” he shortens her name on a sigh, and she can just imagine he’s making that same face he did outside the restaurant before he kissed her. “You were always destined for better things than Beacon Hills. I can’t be mad at you for that.” 

The streak of passing streetlights begin to slow, spacing out until the cab pulls up to the curb outside her apartment building. The cash is already crumpled between her fingers, and she passes it through the window before opening the door into the cool night air. 

“You should have been. I was a coward.” 

She mumbles the words as she shoulders open the door to the lobby, and it’s met with another laugh on the other end of the line. 

“Lydia Martin is no coward, so you can knock that off right now. I won’t stand for that kind of talk about one of my best friends, you hear me?”

_ Best friends.  _ The words should make her happy, given that he so quickly took her back after years of radio silence, but they fall short. She  _ wants  _ more.  _ Needs _ more. She needs to get back everything she lost, and not be so afraid this time. 

“Mmmm,” she hums like she’s actually considering it, taking the steps up to her second floor loft. “You were always biased.” 

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and she lets it fill her as she unlocks the door to her apartment and steps inside. 

“Did you call me tonight just so I could pump up your ego? Is that what this is about?” 

“I wanted to hear your voice,” she blames the alcohol for making her honest. It loosens up her tongue easier than when she’s sober, but the words are still the truth all the same. He makes a shocked noise, covering it quickly with a cough, but she can’t stop the smile that stretches across her face knowing that she caught him by surprise. Shrugging off her jacket and shoes, she makes her way to the bed while he processes her confession. 

“Have you been drinking?” his question is hesitant, but not accusatory. He knows her that well, apparently. 

“Maybe a little,” Lydia confirms, sighing as she sinks down into the plush comforter. “My classmate had her study published, so we went out for drinks to celebrate.” 

“And now you’re back home? Not out venturing the city all alone?” the worry in his voice makes her want to roll her eyes, but she doesn’t. It’s nice to feel cared for, even if she’s not used to it anymore. 

“Safe and sound, I swear,” she vows. “Tell me something?” 

He makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, considering her request. “So you can hear my voice?” 

Laughing, she rolls over with a huff. “I can and will hang up on you.” 

“Alright, alright,” he caves. “Did you know that fruit flies were the first living creatures to be sent into space?” 

_ “ _ Ugh _ ,”  _ her laugh turns into a light giggle, and she drags her hand down her face. She’s  _ definitely  _ feeling the alcohol if she’s laughing this much, but she doesn’t mind. “That’s not what I mean. Tell me something  _ good. _ ”

Lydia’s not quite sure what she wants to hear. Something about him, maybe. What his plans are for the holidays, or what he wants to do with his career long term. If he thinks about her as much as she thinks about him. 

“Something good, huh? Okay, let’s see,” he pauses, his voice going a little more serious. “I never really stopped missing you, but now it feels like it’s getting worse every single day.”

The soft admission sobers her immediately, and she feels the phone sliding between the iron grip of her fingers. A second passes by, and then another, while she revels in the fact that he misses her too… Just as much, if not more.  _ Maybe things haven’t changed as much as I thought.  _ When she doesn’t respond, and the silence grows, he coughs out an awkward laugh. 

“I genuinely hope you’re too drunk to remember this in the morning.” 

“I’m not,” she replies, feeling a little dizzy. 

Before she can find the right words to say back, he starts sputtering an apology. “I’m sorry, I made it weird. I shouldn’t have said anything--”

“ _ Stiles, _ ” she cuts him off. “I miss you too.” 

It’s his turn to be silent, and she swears she hears him swallow before responding. 

“You do?” 

“Yeah,” the word is a whisper in the quiet darkness of her apartment. It never felt nearly this empty before Stiles came back into her life and changed everything, but now it’s all she can think about. Grateful for the alcohol loosening her tongue, she keeps going. “I miss you all the time. I used to be fine, being by myself. But now… Now I just feel alone.” 

“You don’t have to be,” Stiles says, just as quiet, like maybe he’s too worried about ruining the moment. He doesn’t realize that nothing could ruin this, whatever it is between them. She won’t let him. 

“I do,” she disagrees, a sudden wave of forlorn sadness washing over her. “I ruined everything, and now you’re so far away again.” 

“Can I ask you a question?” he hesitates. 

“Won’t you anyway?” 

He rewards her snark with a slight laugh.  _ Good.  _ She learned it from him. “What would you do if I were there right now?” 

For a moment she imagines him, sitting in the dark of his hotel room, staring up at the ceiling the same way she is now. Then, the vision shifts. She sees him at her door, looking at her from underneath those dark lashes, lips curled up into a knowing smile. His fingers tapping against the fabric of his worn jeans, and the comfortable flannel she knows he’s probably wearing at this exact moment draped across his shoulders.  _ What would she do?  _ She’d tuck her hands underneath his shirt, spanning them across the solid skin of his waist, lining her body up against his until it felt like they were one. She’d inhale the scent of his soap and his deodorant and his cologne until she knew she would never forget it. She would reach for him, inching up on to her toes, until her lips lined up with his and he breathed her name like a vow.

“Does it matter?” the question comes out shaky, but it’s her last line of defense. 

“Yes, it does,” Stiles sounds strained on the other end, and she can hear fabric shifting. The click of a latch, followed by muffled footsteps.  _ What is he doing? _ “Tell me, Lydia.” 

When she opens her mouth, the words get stuck. She wants to say them, with every fiber in her being, but they’re just too big and too heavy to get past her own blocks. 

There’s the soft sound of a  _ ding _ on the other end of the line, and he pleads with her one last time. “Please… Tell me so that I know I’m not wrong.” 

“I--” she starts, swallowing past the dry lump in her throat. “I would hug you. And kiss you. And tell you all the things that I should have said years ago.” 

“Lydia,” the sound of her name is enough to send goosebumps rippling down her arms. He says it like it’s his single, sole purpose, and she’s not sure if she’s excited or afraid of what he’s about to say next. 

“Text me your address. Now.” 

“Why?” confused, she sits up, but it makes the room skew sideways. 

“I’m coming over,” he says it like it’s a simple act, and he’s not in a completely different city. 

“You can’t--”

“Lydia, tell me right now or I’m going to spend the entire night in an Uber driving circles around Boston trying to find you myself.” 

“You’re-- _ what?  _ Stiles, you left-- _ ”  _

Her head is spinning.  _ This can’t be real.  _ He can’t be in Boston, can he? He went home, then--

Behind his exasperated laugh, she hears the unmistakable sounds of nightlife. People chatting, horns honking. “Yeah, I went home for my dad’s surgery, and then I came back, Lydia. I’m not done with this assignment yet.” 

“You didn’t tell me?” the shock slams into her hard and fast. He’s been back in Boston for  _ two  _ weeks and just let her assume otherwise?

“Because I didn’t want to scare you off when I just found you again !” his voice is loud against the sounds of the street around him. 

Taking a deep breath, she remembers his earlier question.  _ This is it.  _ This is her moment. 

“341 East State, Apartment B.”

“I’m on my way.” 

The minutes tick by at a glacial pace, time seeming to stretch by in hours before she hears the telltale buzz at her front door from the bell at the lobby entrance.  _ Stiles.  _ With shaking hands she lets him in, reaching over to throw open her door to see him again. 

Finally. 

His head appears before the rest of him, bounding up the steps two at a time, but it’s his face that almost breaks her heart. He looks panicked, like maybe if he doesn’t reach her in time, this will all be over. Lost. Gone. 

“Stiles--” she reaches out for him, meeting him in the hallway, and his body slams into hers. 

“Lydia,” breathing her name into her hair, he wastes no time wrapping his long arms around her shoulders, pulling her body into his just the way she was imagining less than a half an hour ago. 

“You’re here,” the words sound watery, and her throat is tight, but she digs her face into the soft material of his jacket. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he practically whispers the apology, and when she pulls away she sees that his chestnut-colored eyes are glimmering with his own unshed tears. 

“I understand,” as much as she wishes she didn’t, she does. Because they both know that had he been up front, she would have run again. She would have hidden until he really did leave, because she would have been too afraid to let her guard down so quickly. 

Even though they both pretend otherwise, he knows her just as well as she knows herself. Taking a deep breath, she knows what she has to do next. No more wasting time when they’ve already lost so much. 

“Can I ask you a question?” she mimics his own words back to him, and he gives her a nod, not breaking eye contact. 

“You can ask me a thousand questions if you want,” he tries to joke. 

“Just the one is fine,” she thinks about making her own joke about testing hypotheses and thorough research, but now’s not the time. “Did you love me back then?” 

His face falls, and for a moment, her heart sinks. When he shakes his head slowly, she’s suddenly terrified of the words that are about to come next. 

“Lydia,” he swallows thickly, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. “I never stopped.” 

It takes a moment for his words to settle into her brain, to register that he’s telling the truth, and when it does, she feels like she’s soaring. Standing in the hallway outside of her apartment, she wants to scream and laugh and cry, all wrapped up in the arms of the one man she never stopped loving. The one she’s only ever loved, really. 

Licking her lips, she says the last thing she needs to hear from him. “Tell me we can make it work.” 

“Whatever it takes,” Stiles confirms, and as soon as the words are past his lips, she crashes them against hers. 

Unlike the last time she kissed him, in the dark of the spare bedroom at Scott’s New Year's Eve party, he’s ready. There’s no shock, no delay, no moment of “ _ is this real or am I imagining things?”  _ They’re both together, as one, completely in sync, and he kisses her like he’s been waiting years for this chance. 

It’s not like the chaste kiss outside the restaurant, either. It’s strong and confident, and he runs his hands up her shoulders, to her neck and jaw, where he cradles her face to move his lips against hers. He holds her there, showing her with every ounce of himself just how much he loves her. 

“Stiles,” she breaks away just long enough to gasp for air, diving back in with a renewed sense of urgency. Call it passion, call it hormones, call it lust--it’s consuming her, eating her alive from the inside out, and she can’t get enough of him. Their mouths move together, slanting and taking, until he delicately slides the tip of his tongue against her lower lip. 

“Tell me,” he whispers when she hesitates, urging her on. She grasps at his shirt, pulling the fabric between her knuckles, and says the words against his lips. 

“I love you.”

His relief is a sharp exhale, and that’s when she knows. Sometimes home isn’t a place. It’s a person. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @ambpersand.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @ambpersand.


End file.
